


A Riot Of Her Own

by moustache_bonnet



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anarchy, F/F, F/M, Gang Violence, Heavily Politics-Oriented, Historical Accuracy, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Lavender Affair, M/M, Multi, Period Typical Attitudes, Period Typical Bigotry, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Politics, canon compliant if you squint
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:20:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27955304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moustache_bonnet/pseuds/moustache_bonnet
Summary: Eleanor Thorne doesn’t hate anything as much as being compartmentalized in any sense, though within the polarized society of post-war London, that asserts the philosophy of drawing clear lines between the good and the bad, nothing might seem harder than maintaining the idea of an objective conscience. With her ideals clear in mind, Nora explores her place in history of the class conflict and recession of 1920s Britain, while she witnesses the rise of the Shelby family to money, fame, and power. At first she does so from the sidelines of No Man’s Land, until a carelessly chosen job throws her right in the middle of a turf war between the Peaky Blinders and the Gangs of London. And if that’s not enough, an Evil starts to emerge from the pits of moral filth, that might change everything forever.[A Peaky Blinders fanfiction that maps the canonical events of the tv show and world history through the eyes of an OC.]
Relationships: Ada Shelby & Original Female Character(s), Alfie Solomons & Original Female Character(s), James (Peaky Blinders)/Original Female Character, James (Peaky Blinders)/Original Male Character
Kudos: 2





	A Riot Of Her Own

**Author's Note:**

> For edits and short fics which serve as a scaffolding for this multichapter, head to the [Tumblr tag](https://moustache-bonnet.tumblr.com/tagged/nora-thorne). For any historical or canonical inaccuracies which you might spot, or problematic things (Period-typical Homo- and Biphobia will be a thing in this, misogyny and sexism, as well as Anarchism, Communism, and Fascism) that you feel you need to discuss, do not hesitate to either adress me in the comments or message me on Tumblr. The fic is pre-tagged, but tags will be added accordingly to each chapter.

Nora falls to the ground; all eight stone of her stumble back and topple downward to the mildewed slabs of Broad Street.

It is the Sixth December 1929 and she is knocked down in front of Bingley Hall, Birmingham by a police constable not much older than herself--so not more than thirty-five years of age, that is--who is charging with a blind rage into a similarly dispositioned crowd. This is of a wide spectrum of both people and beliefs tonight, from the Left to the Centre to the Right, from Nationalists to the Authorities to Libertarians; but the desire is only one and shared collectively: Power, and thus ultimately, Blood. Around her, all the living things are engaged in a struggle for survival, abusing each other to survive.

As Nora lands on her hip, a worker’s boot pins the fingers of her hand to the cobblestone, and a knee meets her cheek, and her panicked mind slips into the state of an alien, adrenaline-driven consciousness, where the time slows for her until it almost stops, and suddenly instead of a rushed chaos she finds the scenes around her unraveling lazily like the smoke from a cigarette.

She sees in detail how Schofield cracks his knuckles open against one of Billy Boys’ teeth. The Billy Boy punches back to retaliate, and because he has his hand adorned with rings (one on every finger each), Sco’s brow comes undone immediately, spurting blood. Confused, he also collides with the pave of the street, grunting in pain, but he never gives up and is back to his feet with the next breath.

To Nora’s left, a nameless boy shouts a curse in yiddish as he kicks a Blackshirt in the stomach and then leaves him screaming on the ground. On the other side of the road, coppers clash with the rest of the protesting crowd, raining truncheons upon their heads. Placards crack and tear, as do bones and skin.

“Fascism must not be allowed to voice its creed of hatred!” yells the distinctive voice of Jessie Eden, though where she is no-one can tell and it doesn’t really matter for everybody is deaf towards her, busy fighting for their own good health.

Somewhere glass breaks and a woman walks by: a good-looking _madame_ of a higher class, clean and dressed in a beautiful embroidered coat that in a beat of absolute, stupid detachment Nora envies her awfully. The woman sees Nora hurt underneath her feet. A momentary anticipation swells among bystanders of what will happen next.

Those too sensible might perhaps fear for the dame’s good health in the presence of a wounded anarchist, just as naturally as another might despair for the life of an antelope in the presence of a starved lioness. Others, who are civilised members of the society and in their right mind, could perhaps expect the women to help one another: the dispersed lights from above bath the dame’s symmetrical silhouette in a glow like the halo of a Saint and for a moment this deceives Nora, too, into believing that the stranger might lift her from her suffering. She shifts instinctively into the direction of the figure like it is the apparition of Mother Mary herself.

But only those with enough experience would anticipate what _really_ happens, and it is that the dame spits clumsily at Nora and over her own pretty coat in a gesture of resentment, and then continues with a small expression of disgust through the entrance of the Hall as not to miss the speech starting inside any minute now. A scoff escapes Nora’s lips, the sound halfway towards a laugh, but not just quite reaching the correct emotion.

Now a black car comes to halt not a yard from where Nora lies, prompting her to finally scramble to her feet. Men pour out of the automobile--she can see Arthur Shelby and Johnny Dogs among them, ushering over the sill an unfamiliar lad, and she thinks:

_It’s started._

Nora doesn’t know what it is, because nobody had really told her, only that she ran to it despite her gut warning against it; ran home, to the streets of blood in which it seems every Revolution is bound to end. It is hard to acknowledge this, for she had come to the city that morning possessed by the high hope that the Power and the Right was with the good people by her side and not with the beast whom they hoped to bring down.

She can’t find anybody in the crowd anymore: not Sco, not Alfie’s boys, not Jessie (although this one can be heard crying: “We have a right to protest!” in the distance), and as she watches the wretched fight peak all around her, Eleanor Thorne finds it impossible to remember that in the end, despite this obscure reality of hatred, anger, and pain,

hers is a story about **love**.


End file.
